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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27995061">Wobble</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff/pseuds/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff'>SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Thick of It (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brief references to pregnancy in Ch5, F/M, Fainting, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, References to Illness, Sickfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:40:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27995061</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff/pseuds/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Nicola faints just after Malcolm kisses her, and one time she actually manages to hold it together.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Hot</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic contains references to fainting and brief mentions of illness in general and vomiting. </p><p>A soft little fluffy thing though, given all that.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicola Murray has never possessed what one might call a "strong constitution". Every seasonal flu bug that goes around the office begins with Nicola, and once she's infected the rest of her staff she usually ends up being consigned to the sofa for about a week, trying fruitlessly to "work from home", whatever the fuck thats supposed to look like with four kids. Every slightly ill-judged fourth mojito or dodgy post-pub kebab makes itself known to Nicolas stomach at three o'clock the following morning, so much so that James has taken to insisting on sleeping on the sofa when she's been out so that he doesnt have to deal with her waking him up. It's been this way as long as she can remember, and after multiple anxious trips to various doctors and specialists convinced there was something Wrong with her, she's eventually been forced to consider the very real possibility that perhaps she's just sensitive. Sensitive and anxious, or as Malcolm likes to describe it, "like a fuckin baby deer living on the hard shoulder of the M4". Its an apt description, even if the thought of how frightened the little thing would be makes her stomach cramp uncomfortably.</p><p>It's during one such of Malcolm's colourful descriptive monologues about her latest minor fuck-up that Nicola suddenly realises he's staring at her. Great. This is new, and therefore immediately unsettling. Perhaps she has a new freckle, and Malcolm once did a beginners online course in dermatology, and is about to inform her she's going to die. It wouldn't be the most unwelcome news she's received this week, she thinks, running over in her head the Catalogue of Bullshit she's been provided with since Monday morning, which frankly seems like years ago. James has been photographed leaving a (s)wanky restaurant hand in hand with a woman who even the least astute paparazzo could ascertain is both too slim and too tall to be Nicola, despite the cover of dusk. Somehow this is /her/ fault, as is the fact that the latest policy on protecting access to social housing for refugees has had Nicola derided throughout the British press as at once an "idealistic, frankly dangerous Socialist" and "an unpatriotic, backstabbing racist." Trying to point out the cognitive dissonance behind the headlines to Malcolm hasn't been going well, and she was just thinking up a new line of argument to pursue when she noticed the staring thing. Malcolm has never seemed to share Nicolas absolute aversion to direct eye contact, in fact he wouldn't be half as frightening if he did, but still - there's something new in the laser focus currently trained on her forehead as she pays particular attention to the chipped nail polish on her right thumb.</p><p>"I'm just not a racist, Malcolm, you know that! Its a fucking ridiculous argument, I don't even know why you're making me go over it. Just because newspapers write something, doesn't make it true for fucks sake. Has nobody in this place ever read a piece of critical media theory, honestly, it's fucking basic stuff, and I - I -" she falters, feeling a familiar rolling sensation in the bottom of her stomach. "I've got to go-" she mutters, standing before freezing as she realises quite how close Malcolm has gotten to her while she wasn't paying attention. "God, Nicola, don't throw up on his nice shoes", is all she can think as she finally looks him in the eye again. Ridiculously, something about being this close to him settles her nerves, and within a few moments she no longer feels her desk-lunch pasta salad rebelling against her. "The fuck are you doing, Malcolm?" She murmurs, mostly because they're so close that speaking any louder feels like a waste of energy, but also because there's something in the unfamiliar sparkle in Malcolm's eyes that is ever so slightly frightening and - and something else that she hasn't felt since before the kids, something she /really/ doesn't want to analyse right now. Not here, right in front of him.</p><p>Malcolm, it seems, has no such scruples. " 'M thinking, Nic'la. The rest of us do that, sometimes." There was no bitterness in it, in fact he smiled, which made Nicolas tummy do something even more distracting, the sort of rolly-poly she hadn't felt since she was growing Josh in there. She's about to ask him what he's thinking about when he presses on regardless, still staring right at her. "Thinking bout how on God's fucking great Earth yer Tory bastard husband can step out with that secretary slapper of his when he's got all of -" he gestures to her vaguely with an open hand, a change from his usual clenched fists or pointing fingers. "All of you to come home to" he finishes, and there's definitely a finality to it. A laying on the table, so to speak, a Malcolm Tucker style one point presentation on why, exactly, Nicola is even more fucked than she thought she was.</p><p>Neither of them is sure exactly who moves first, though in later life they'll both insist it was them. Nicola ends up not remembering much of the next five minutes, but either Malcolm or herself or <em>someone</em> leans in and suddenly they're kissing, of all things. Kissing, Malcolm Tucker and Nicola still-technically-married Murray. His lips are so soft against hers, he must wear fucking lip balm, she realises, and all of a sudden she's quite convinced the room is on fire. Everything is too hot, too much, and yet she whimpers softly when he steps back immediately as if she's burnt him. "Nic'la, I- " he begins before noticing the look on her pale face and the wobble in her knees. "Fuckin hell, Nic'la, don't - 'am not going to do it again if ye don't like it" he blurts out. Christ, she's fucking dying, he thinks, she's suddenly having that massive heart attack one or the both of them was always inevitably heading for. He's suddenly reminded of the time his niece scared a robin to death by trying to pet it, and like Ellie, he is suddenly also on the verge of a huge fucking meltdown. "Sit down, darlin, please" he says uncharacteristically softly, but before he can pull his desk chair out she's gone. A soft little whimpery noise he never wants to hear again and the rumple of an M&amp;S dress and cardi combo and she's gone, weak at the knees and eyes fluttering shut, ending up splayed out on his office floor in a decidedly unglamarous sprawl and only just avoiding hitting her head on his desk. He'll replay this moment over and over in the next few weeks, thinking about how close she'd come to something really fucking serious. But for now, he does what he always does, and calls for Sam.</p><p>When Nicola comes to a few moments later, Malcolm's jacket is laid across her and he's knelt next to her, those expressive eyes full of deep and genuine concern. Its about the only time she's ever seen that on his face, and she takes a moment to take it in before remembering what had happened. "Fuck, Malcolm, I - it wasn't you" she blurts out, screwing her eyes shut again as the act of talking makes her head spin. "I didn't - you didnt misjudge. I just - I'm a little bit sensitive" she reasons quietly, earning a soft little exhale of breath from Malcolm that's almost a laugh. "Aye, well - ye can show me all about that next time, hm?" He teases quietly, very briefly brushing her hair off her clammy forehead before standing. It takes her all the next half hour to drink the sugary tea Sam makes and be guided into a waiting car, and then, finally, work out what he meant. Oh. Yes please, she thinks, and then decides to text him the same. He doesn't reply, but she knows he's not one for having second thoughts.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Clammy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nicola is poorly. Malcolm is poorly-equipped.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sick!Fic Malcola is my thing. Not proof-read so please let me know if you spot anything. With credits to Taylor Swift for giving me the inspirational album I needed today.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It wasn’t precisely an <em>affair</em> that they fell into, or perhaps they just told themselves that to assuage the remorse. They didn’t shag, which Malcolm found in equal measures frustrating and baffling, and more than once he had to remind himself that Nicola had four children, and so clearly did actually in fact possess some sort of sex drive. They snogged, a lot, up against the walls of Malcolm’s office, the back of the locked door, in his desk chair with Nicola in his lap. He started to learn where she did and didn’t like to be touched – hair, cheek, hands and particularly the soft dip in her lower back were all appreciated. Paying any attention at all to her tummy or anywhere below the waistband of her sensible skirts was liable to make her get up and leave, so he packed that in pretty sharpish. Nicola didn’t want to shag him, and that was fine, “completely fine darlin’”, except for the fact that every gentle removal of his wandering hand reminded him of the wedding ring burning the skin on hers. He didn’t understand why she still insisted on wearing it, they were married in name only since the whole Secretary Situation and James had already moved out to his sister’s place, but every morning when they bumped into each other in the corridors or at the coffee shop they both preferred, there it was, glinting malevolently at him from those wonderful delicate fingers. Fuck it, fuck him, fuck the ring – fuck her? No. Not yet, at least.</p><p>One particularly relentless Monday, Malcolm actually made it through the ten o’clock departmental briefing before he’d even had time to spare one thought for Nicola - lovely Nic and her lovely kissing. She hadn’t sent him one of her irritating, over-friendly emails yet (he’d had to have a few gentle words about the inadvisability of signing them off ‘N xx’) and Sam hadn’t seen her around either, which was unusual, because the two of them seemed to be constantly bumping into each other in the Sacred Space of the ladies loos, no doubt to gossip about him. He thought about sending her a text, but it seemed a little desperate and besides, what the fuck would he even say? ‘Morning Nicola, noticed you haven’t turned up to pretend like we don’t want to fuck each other yet, let me know if everything’s okay even though I don’t have the emotional intelligence to help if it’s not?’ It didn’t sound like an appealing prospect upon examination, so he settled instead for having Sam check the electronic staff records. ‘She’s signed herself off sick – flu, I think. Yeah, ‘flu-like symptoms’ it says here. She’s booked the rest of the week, poor thing’ Sam informed him, as always the Font of All Knowledge, or at least The One Who Knows Where to Look. ‘I’m not supposed to be looking on here anyway, I had to borrow Carrie’s log in, so you better decide what you want to do with that information pronto, because I won’t be doing it again’ she added firmly, shutting down the page before she could start to feel guilty about it. Christ, she really should stop enabling him and whatever this weird not-quite-affair thing was with Nicola, it was only going to end in tears, probably hers.</p><p>In the end it took Malcolm all of half an hour to work out what to do with this information, using his newfound expertise to put in a request for his first ever half-day of sick leave. Fuck – look at all that annual leave he’d stacked up too. If only he could trust himself to not go absolutely mental if he took any of it, he’d probably be in the Maldives right the fuck now. Hailing a cab outside the front of the office (less likely to be the target of leaky drivers), he decided against Gatwick Airport and headed to the sensible, prim little mid-terrace house on a non-descript suburban cul-de-sac that was the home of one Ms. Nicola Murray, MP. Hoping beyond all hope that the patient had at least managed to drop her kids off at school, he knocked, then rang the doorbell, then peeked through the letter box to check she wasn’t actually dead. ‘Fuck off, I don’t want whatever it is’ a sniffly, thick voice came from within, until Nicola actually looked up from the episode of Old House New Home she was watching and caught sight of a familiar pair of eyes through the letterbox. ‘Oh, no, fuck’s sake’ she huffed, finally getting up and opening the door.</p><p>The sight that greeted Malcolm upon being able to identify more of Nicola than just a fuzzy human shaped blob through the bristles of her fucking poncey letterbox was enough to catch his words in his throat for a second. She was clearly both too hot and too cold, in a tshirt with a World’s Best Mummy slogan (he wouldn’t dare comment) and a pair of thick jogging bottoms, and the ugliest, most worn out pair of vaguely pink but mostly grimy slippers that Malcolm had ever seen. ‘Christ, Nic, ye look like shite’ was his opening remark in the end, though he sort of intended it to come out more supportive. She scoffed, clearly still having enough energy to ridicule him, and reluctantly stepped back to let him inside. ‘I really still don’t understand why you’re here’ she said a little hoarsely, by way of reminding him that he still hadn’t actually explained himself. ‘I’m off sick, you don’t have the right to just come round here and –‘ she began, before being cut off abruptly by Malcolm’s insistence that he’d make some tea.</p><p>The tea was nice, it helped a little, and much as Nicola wanted to sit up watching daytime TV all day, she eventually begrudgingly accepted Malcolm’s suggestion that she should probably get some sleep. She still didn’t really know why he was here, besides to make her tea and offer her some sort of hesitant, stumbling attempts at sympathy, but somewhere in a part of her brain she didn’t like to venture to often, she had to admit that she did appreciate it. Nobody else had even bothered to text her, and here was Malcolm, clearly having cleared his schedule to sit on her sofa and watch home design programmes with her whilst dithering about whether it was okay to rest his hand on her knee. ‘Fine, fine – I’ll go and get some sleep. Thank you, Malcolm, I – it was good to see you’ she went for in the end, leaving him to show himself out as she left her mug on the coffee table and went upstairs to bed. Of course he washed it up before he left, he was actually house-trained.</p><p>It was a text at about 5pm that eventually made him look up from the pile of paperwork he was ploughing through at his kitchen table. Since he’d actually taken the afternoon off and made Sammy go through the awkwardness of calling everyone up to cancel his meetings (with the resultant sceptical questioning when she’d explained that Malcolm was unwell), it was the least he could do for the poor lass to go home and work through some of the reams of shite she needed him to read and sign and review. It all got a cursory glance and a scribble, until his phone buzzed atop something from Julius about ASBOS and he noticed it was Nic. Nicola, Christ, she had a proper name, and he better start remembering to use it.</p><p>
  <em>Dying. Kids are at James’. Can your head actually explode? I think I saw it in an episode of 24hrs in A&amp;E. N x </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Can you come over? N x </em>
</p><p>The first text made him smile despite himself, and the second one made him stand immediately, abandoning the half-finished paperwork and finding his shoes. It didn’t take him long to cross town to Nicola’s, opting for the Tube this time just in-case the cabbie would recognise him and the address. Visiting a colleagues house at ten thirty was perfectly acceptable, but just after five was starting to push the boundaries of ‘business meeting’ believability. When he arrived, the door was unlocked, and he made a mental note to bollock her when she was feeling better. Just because she was poorly didn’t mean she needed to be leaving herself unsecured against – well – he wasn’t sure what, actually, but certainly the idea of Nicola home alone without anyone to protect her was making him feel growly. Not that she needed anyone. She didn’t need anyone, least of all him.</p><p>‘Nic? Ye alright, pet?’ he called as he took off his shoes, finding the house unsettlingly quiet. Wherever Nicola went, there was always the background hum of Radio 4 or, if she was feeling cheerful, Radio 1, even though she hated most of the new stuff. She couldn’t stand silence, and as Malcolm slowly walked up the stairs he found that he couldn’t either. He knocked gently on the bedroom door before heading in, trying not to think about the fact that he was literally in Nicola’s bedroom. There were more pressing matters at hand, given the clammy pale mess that was currently laying on Nicola’s bed. Not even under the covers, just sprawled out on top in her t-shirt and knickers, sweaty but not even in the glowy post-coital way, rather a sort of ill dew that sat atop her usually soft (gorgeous) skin. ‘Fucking hell, Nic’la – ‘ he murmured, before realising she really didn’t need the dramatics. She looked at him then, finally, almost confused as to why he was here. ‘Huh? Did you – oh, I text you. ‘Member now. Thanks for – yeah. Hi’ she mumbled, reaching out for him with a sweaty palm.</p><p>Taking her clammy hand in his, he sat down next to her on the bed and tried not to panic. People didn’t die from flu, did they? Not fourty-something year old people who were fit and healthy, anyway. Saying that, Nicola wasn’t particularly healthy, more of an ailing Edwardian governess than a health-conscious gym bunny, despite all the fucking yoga. It wasn’t worth thinking about, he reasoned, and he turned his attention to very gently brushing her unruly hair out of her face. ‘You look like shite warmed up, Nics. Even worse than this mornin. Have ye eaten anything?’ he asked, stroking a finger across her flushed cheek. She mumbled something indistinct, and as he leant down to hear her a little better, he couldn’t help brushing his lips over hers. They were dry, which wasn’t like her, and he was just about to search in her bed drawer for a lip balm when he heard that horrible little whimpering noise again. ‘Nic – fuck, no, Nic, don’t –‘ was all he had time for before her eyes rolled sickeningly and then thankfully closed, leaving her looking for all the world like she was actually <strong>gone. </strong>Christ, I preferred it better when she did it standing up, Malcolm thought briefly before grabbing his phone from his back pocket.</p><p>Sam or ambulance? A common conundrum. In the end he went for NHS 111, since it didn’t really seem like an <em>emergency</em>, and Nicola had come back round after just a few moments. She was gazing at him with an unreadable expression as he took advice from the calm, friendly young lad at the end of the phone, and then hung up and relayed it all back to Nicola with an air of great solemnity. ‘Malcolm, love – I have had four kids’ was all she said, before lying back and allowing herself to be subjected to endless rounds of juice and tea and toast and gentle, gentle kisses.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Close</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Never easy, never fucking easy." Malcolm is repentant, but Nicola isn't going to do his emotional labour for him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Post-series Malcola is my fav. This is a chronological series so the rest of the chapters are post-canon too.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the years that follow, Malcolm never once stops thinking about Nicola Murray, or whatever it is she's calling herself these days. The night before his trial, he's consumed by an intense anxiety dream where Nicola has been called for jury service, and he wakes in a cold sweat that has nothing to do with the thought of prison. Prison isn't /really/ that bad, when it comes down to it, the place he ends up in is low security and his family can visit once a week. And when they cant, subsumed by the trappings of normal life, the round-and-round of ballet, gymnastics, preschool, anniversaries, date nights, he has time to think, and to grow, and all in all it ends up not being the worst thing he's ever done in his life. He doesn't stop thinking about her though. He thinks of other things, of course, distractions - he does a course in criminal justice and community activism, and he begrudgingly makes a few acquaintances. He likes to think he does it for his own good, but underneath everything is this constant hum of Nicola. "Would she be proud of me? - Nicola would enjoy this article - I wonder if she still has the same stupid email address?" It flows through him like his own blood, like a heartbeat constantly consistently thumping away in his chest, like the quiet swish-swish of the industrial washing machines at night. Sometime since the last time he saw her, disappearing out of the Inquiry with a quiet, dignified grace, she's stopped being Nic or Nics or darlin', and gone back to being Nicola. He's not quite sure if its respect or reverence, he's never had much time for either, but she's Nicola now, and he hopes he's new too. </p><p>For her own part, Nicola has always hoped they'd meet somewhere normal. Tesco, or a high-street coffee chain, or a motorway service station. Somewhere where "hi, how's the family, lovely weather, nice to see you, must catch up, got to dash" is practically the only acceptable thing to say, somewhere where there certainly isn't space for "you completely transformed my understanding of human cruelty" and "do you remember that time you said you wanted to swallow me whole?". As it is, they end up bumping into each other at a celebratory works do, when she's already two dry martinis down and starting to totter slightly in the frankly ambitious heels she'd worn. The non-profit she works for has just secured an equally ambitious contract with a local housing association to provide free meals outside of term times, and it turns out that Malcolm's been doing PR consultancy for a scheme focused on reducing youth deprivation and crime on London's estates. Or at least that's what he tells her as he crosses the room with a confidence that she is sickeningly envious of and offers to buy her another drink. She accepts, the drink and the explanation, and the fact that they have been brought here by Fate seems to Nicolas martini-marinated mind to be nothing less than an absolute fact. Theyre both on part time contracts, neither of them wanted to come tonight, and a few bureaucratic holdups here or a more inviting BBC One schedule there and they wouldn't have crossed paths at all. The thought makes her feel slightly sick, though it is rather hot in here, and her spanx are ever so slightly too effective. </p><p>She looks stunning, and she clearly knows it, and its all Malcolm can do to ask after the kids and pass her a napkin as she misses her mouth slightly and a trickle of alcohol slips down her chin towards her cleavage. Tonight's choice is a clingy, crushed black velvet number, and a pair of glittery silver heels she can barely stand up in, and he immediately notices the silver bracelet (with charms of the kids initials), the delicate silver necklace and earring set, and the lack of the old gold wedding band that would have clashed horribly. Sam had been right then, always so bloody right and utterly insufferable with it. "Congratulations" he murmurs, gesturing towards her evenly-tanned hand, and wiggles a pack of cigarettes at her enticingly. They're both maintaining the fiction that they've given up, so they're particuarly careful as they sneak out of the party to the balcony overlooking the city, and if it reminds Malcolm of the way he used to sneak her into his office after hours, he decides wisely not to mention it. It's freezing, bitterly cold and windy to boot, though thankfully that means no other fucker is out here. They have to huddle like penguins to light up, and she still smells so fucking good, so soft and floral and slightly lemony that it whacks him right in the chest and he can't bear to move. Nicola doesn't move either, though whether she's struck with emotion or simply using him as some sort of human windshield, he's not entirely sure. He doesn't care. He'd let her use him as a fucking deck chair, for Christ's sake. </p><p>Health implications aside, theres something to be said for liquid courage, and though he resolutely doesn't drink anymore, he makes up for it with the comforting buzz of nicotine flooding his bloodstream. Nicotine and Nicola sound very similar, do they not? He's pondering this and staring out across the Thames when she shifts below him, poking him in the chest with one well-manicured finger, her ridiculously expressive eyebrows knitting as she blows out a practiced plume of smoke. "You told me you'd given up /ages/ ago" she accuses, and out of all the things she could have charged him with, its this that takes the wind out of his sails. "Aye, well - told ye a lot of things, darlin', didn't I?" He murmurs, and the rather violent way Nicola stubs out her fag end on the edge of the wall makes him well aware that she hasn't stopped thinking about him either. He's preparing himself for a Category Fucked bollocking when she's suddenly much closer to him than he'd realised whilst he hadn't been paying attention. She's wearing thick false eyelashes, and he finds the mechanics of them so captivating that he just stares at her for a few long moments before realising exactly /why/ she's so close to him, her tiny little feet between his polished shoes where he's leaning up against the wall. "You said an awful lot of shit, Malcolm, emphasis on the awful" she begins, and he accepts it with a soft exhale of breath. "But sometimes words aren't enough" she breathes, and he suddenly realises that she's not going to do this for him. He's going to have to handle this himself. </p><p>The kiss, when it finally happens, feels just like it always has. There's no timely fireworks, no huge rush of fiery lust, just explanation and familiarity and a hint of the beginnings of acceptance. He kisses like he's sorry, and that's definitely a start. Now really isn't the time, though, they both know it, and Nicola steals just a few more feather-soft kisses before she steps back. "I've got to go and do a stupid fucking speech. Wait for me, won't you?" She murmurs, and he knows he will. God, he will. The speech is surprisingly good, Nicola is more confident and funnier and more at home in her own skin than he remembers her being in front of crowds, much more like the Nicola he used to see behind his locked office door. It feels a little like she's been released, and he makes a silent vow to never again hold her back. Hold her up, however, might be on the menu, as just as she reaches the heartfelt end of her speech he notices she looks a little hot, a little unsteady in those Bambi on Ice heels as she totters down the stairs next to the podium. The room is packed, and it takes him a few long moments to wriggle his way across to her, and there's a sickening moment where he thinks he's going to be too late. Theres a stair rail just behind where Nicola is standing against the wall trying to compose herself, and he begs her with his eyes to move, damn it, don't smack your head. She's clueless as ever, and he resolves to make her a Places to Faint checklist, and he's not even half-joking. Thanks to a few well-aimed elbows and a chorus of "sorry, mate, comin through, sorry lass, emergency", he makes it to her just in time, sliding his arms under hers and catching her in a frankly very demure swoon. At least she hasnae shown everyone her knickers. </p><p>Nicolas colleagues seem nice enough, and they fuss and flap and provide endless glasses of cold water and wafts with folded up event programmes until she quite firmly reassures them that she's fine, honestly and anyway, Malcolm will take her home. Its news to him, but it's a pattern that he will become very familiar with, an insistence that he /will/ do what is right for them whether he likes it or not. Not that he was ever going to leave her, not a chance. There's a taxi waiting, and he manages to guide Boozy Bambi into it without too much trouble, though some part of him knows theres probably plenty of it ahead. For now, she smiles, and instantly falls asleep on his chest, and that'll do quite nicely. He just needs to work out how he'll ever get her out of this taxi.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Sticky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Summertime Malcola to ease away these winter blues.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Nic'la? Nics?" Malcolm called sleepily, sprawled out on top of the bedsheets completely naked. Christ, it was hot, and he was grateful that they lived in the middle of nowhere so that even Nicola would allow him to have the windows open all night. It was only half six, and he was already uncomfortably warm, very gently sweaty in a way that made him stick slightly to the sheets as he sat up. Nicola clearly wasn't in the ensuite, or she'd have responded, so he supposed was going to have to get up and find her. She /hated/ the heat, bless her, and this record-breaking long hot summer had coincided with the onset of what Malcolm now knew to be called "the perimenopause", which was making her even more heat-and-everything-else intolerant. He'd never known Nicola so snappy and so short-tempered, and then each night when the temperature dropped ever so slightly, she'd lie against his chest in bed and just cry. It was heartbreaking, and he was almost at the edge of his understanding of what he could do for her. They'd been to the doctors plenty of times, but the consensus seemed to be that they'd just have to wait it out, so that's what they were trying to do. The freezer was filled with ice packs, ice cream and the massive round ice cubes that Nic liked for her drinks. She'd practically yelp if an ice cube ended up against her sensitive teeth, so the round ones were safer, less likely to make her fuss and huff, and therefore less likely to end up with Malcolm banished to the study in search of peace and quiet. </p><p>He put some boxers on and headed downstairs quietly, finding the light on in the kitchen, and the back door wide open. It was still a little dark outside, so he switched the outside light on and tried not to laugh when he saw her lying in the morning dew in the grass in just her underwear. "Nic'la, baby - yer gonnae catch a chill" he huffed, though he wasn't sure whether that was actually true. It looked quite nice, actually, if a little odd, and since they didn't have any neighbours... "C'mere, idiot" he huffed, laying down next to her and shivering for a second as the dew soaked into his warm skin. She nuzzled against him immediately, resting her head on his chest so he could run his fingers through her hair. It was longer than it used to be, more like it was when they first met, but smoother and softer now she actually had time to look after herself. Malcolm always insisted she went to the posh hairdressers, not because he wanted to control what she looked like, but because he knew she liked nothing more than sitting there with her Cosmo and getting fussed over. He'd go sometimes too, not that he ever admitted to anyone else that they got their hair cut together, and he had to acknowledge that the shampoo and the oils and the head massages and the general fuss and attention /was/ deeply enjoyable. He hoped her hair wouldn't start falling out, it had when she was pregnant apparently and it had been one of the symptoms listed in the book he'd read about the menopause. It'd absolutely ruin her, she was already much more sensitive and self-conscious than she'd been the last few years, and it was difficult for them both to handle. His Nics wasn't sparkly at the moment, and he desperately wanted to bring it back. </p><p>"What are we gonna do with ye, hey? Poor thing" Malcolm mumbled, pressing a kiss to Nicolas damp hair. It was blissfully cool outside, tucked up together under the cherry blossom tree that sprayed pinkness all over his beautifully maintained lawn. There were birds, somewhere, and he could just about work out what some of them were. "I think that's a song thrush, ye know. And that other one, the closer one, I think thats a greenfinch". Nicola huffed a tiny little laugh against his chest, looking up at him in the dusky light of the dawn. "I didn't know I'd shacked up with Bill Oddie" she teased, and he couldn't help but laugh. "Eh, no such luck, lass. But I know a couple different things. Could catch ye a wild salmon for yer tea, if you wanted" he grinned, though he probably couldn't actually. And definitely not in London. But surely it was the thought that counted. </p><p>Their little oasis in the shade didnt last long, and by lunchtime Nicola was hiding inside and getting progressively more irritated and unbearable. His offer of lunch had been batted off with a hissed "not hungry", even though she hadn't had breakfast. She even declined a coffee, which really wasn't a good sign, and he decided to just go back outside and soak up some sun and leave her to sort herself out. It wasn't that he was unsympathetic, he knew she was having a shit time, but sometimes she could just be so ratty and sharp and he wanted to enjoy the summer for just /one day/. The grass was dry and warm now, and he lay shirtless on his back in the middle of the garden, texting Sam and listening to a podcast she'd sent him about wildlife in the New Forest. It was soothing, and just interesting enough to keep him from falling asleep, basking in the sun like a rather pale lizard. It was an hour or so later that he was brought out of his daze by Nicola knocking on the kitchen window, and he sat up and smiled at her, then on a whim decided to blow her a kiss. She didnt blow one back, which made him a little upset, and he decided he should probably go in and see what was up. </p><p>He'd only just shut the back door when Nicola looked him dead in the eye and fainted, involving an elaborate backwards sliding manoeuvre across the kitchen tiles, her hands still clinging to the side of the sink. Perhaps all those "How to Faint Safely" lessons hadn't been so ridiculous after all. It was instinct now to drag over a kitchen chair with his foot and slide it under her, gently undoing her grasp on the counter and settling her into the chair, practically a dead-weight until she slowly started to come back round. The absolutely abject defeat in her eyes when she finally did come back to life and look up at him made his heart sink, and he leant forward to kiss her clammy forehead. "We need to sort this out, eh, love? Lets pack a bag tonight and drive up to my mam's. Ye can't be too hot up there, aye? And she's probably made shortbread" he smiled, which earned the first proper smile of the day back from Nicola. They didn't have the kids for another week and a half, and it was only fourteen degrees in Glasgow, which sounded a lot more bearable. "Now - ye need some lunch." It didnt take him long to bring together a spicy prawn salad with some mango salsa, and Nicola ate eagerly, which settled his hummingbird heart. "Dyou wanna share a Magnum?" She asked afterwards, a hint of her usual sparkle back. Really, how could he decline?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Suffocating / Breathe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nicola can sometimes be A Bad Mother. Malcolm, thankfully, is an excellent not-quite dad.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter contains discussion of pregnancy and brief, non-graphic descriptions of childbirth. </p><p>For all that its very fluffy in the end. Malc is 59 and a bit which makes Katie.... 25/26 ish.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sunday lunch in what becomes "the Thornton household" is usually quite a sedate affair. Some combination of teenage and post-teenage children will assemble, dependant on what other pressing commitments they have, and there's usually a Guest Appearance from Sam or Jamie, occasionally accompanied by partners. It's more Malcolm's thing than Nicola's, or at least he's the one that started it. Mostly because Nicola is universally incapable of cooking something that doesn't involve pasta, but also he finds the act of cooking a big, hearty meal for people he adores deeply relaxing. Some weeks its the only time he properly feels <em>calm</em>, so it becomes an unwavering date in the diary. Sundays are this gorgeous little shiny bubble in Malcolm's week, and although Nicola wavers a little sometimes in the face of socialisation and having to find a nice top, once Malcolm gets going and he's on good form, she finds the afternoon just slips by like satin through her fingers. He's a captivating host, and the food certainly helps. </p><p>There is only one Sunday lunch that becomes infamous for years to come, and its not even due to Nicolas cooking. For various reasons genuine and fabricated, it ends up just being the two of them and Katie, which puts Nicola immediately on edge. Malcolm adapts easily, cooking for three really isn't a stretch, and he makes enough for four just incase. Katie hadn't said she was bringing Michael, but they've been together long enough that he's earned an undisputed place at the table. He whistles to himself as he potters around the kitchen, until Nic shoots him a glare from the kitchen table where she's trying to bury her anxieties in the latest edition of Cosmo, and he shuts up. "What are ye so nervy about, Nics? It'll be nice, having some proper time with Katie" he says gently when it appears to be safe to breathe again, abandoning peeling potatoes to go over and kiss the back of her head. She's reading some shite about "Top Ten Ways to Keep the Spark Alive", and it makes him consider his upcoming sixtieth with no small amount of dread. He hasn't even got her to marry him yet, and now he's practically dead. "I /know/ that-" she huffs, before realising she's being snippy. "I'm looking forward to it. It just feels odd, quiet, without everyone. You know what I'm like about change" she murmurs, and he nods and kisses her properly and says something he hopes is comforting, but in the back of his head all he can think of is the stunning rose gold diamond ring tucked right at the back of his desk drawer. He knows exactly what she's like when it comes to change. </p><p>Katie looks worse than Nicola when she arrives, pulling her unseasonably large coat around herself as she stands on the doorstep. "Ye have got keys, lass" he reminds her, frowning gently, trying to work out if some viral nervous affliction has affected the womenfolk of his family. "What? Oh, yeah - sorry - I left them at home" she smiled as she steps inside, but he hears them tinkle in her pocket as she hangs her coat up. Theres the obligatory hugs and kisses from Nicola, and if he lingers a little longer than usual as he wraps Katie up in his arms, he's grateful she doesn't say anything. Ye better be bloody alright, Madam, he thinks to himself, and hopes he'll get a quiet moment to catch her later. For now, theres lunch to sort, and Nicola chats away happily enough to her eldest as Malcolm dishes up and sets everything out on the table in the dining room that looks out into the forest. He's halfway through an entertaining story about Nicola losing her reading glasses when he realises Katie isn't smiling, and even Nic is smiling for Christ's sake, and she's the one who's clearly going senile. "Wha's up, buttercup?" He offers, a hint of a smile creeping through the corners of Katie's lips and making her look just like her mother. "I, um - fuck... I did actually have something I wanted - needed - to say, is all." </p><p>There's a tension in the room now, an atmosphere that you could scoop with a spoon. Nicola is gripping her knife and fork as if she's preparing to drive them into the skull of whoever's wronged her daughter. Probably Michael, she thinks, and to think he'd seemed so nice! Even before Katie can speak again Nicolas knee is shaking under the table, and she feels Malcolm reach down and rest his hand on it gently just as Katie explains herself and the bottom falls out of Nicolas world. "Well - I'm <strong>pregnant</strong>. Me and Michael are having a baby." She's quiet, Katie's never quiet, but Nicola doesnt have the brain space to compute this. Her mind has completely fizzled out, replaced by a huge red flashing light and a voice that just shouts "danger, danger, danger" over and over again until she thinks she might be sick. She mumbles something, and she hopes its "excuse me" rather than "you fucking idiot ", and doesn't even wince at the way her chair scrapes along the hardwood floor as she pushes it back and practically <em>runs</em>.</p><p>Malcolm has never been so utterly torn. Nicola is clearly in a state of blind panic, and usually that overrides everything, that's always been a given. But Katie, his daughter, and fuck anyone who disagrees, is rapidly going to pieces in front of him, her eyes filling with hot angry tears as her shoulders shake and she bites hard on her lip. It takes him all of thirty seconds to realise that his grandkid is in there, in her belly, and Nics is probably fine, so he'll stay here with Katie for now. Empty plates abandoned, he goes round to her side of the table and crouches next to her chair, resting a hand on her knee and rubbing little circles into her jeans. "Shhh, s'okay, lass. Promise. Yer mam's not cross, she just - sometimes she's not the best at facing up to new things, hey? I bet you're fuckin terrified too, and that's totally normal. I would be" he admits without any hesitation, and his pure openness draws half a tearful smile out of Katie. "We're gonnae be here for you, aye? Anything ye need, stuff for the house or the babby or just someone to talk to and hold ye, we'll be here" he promises, and hands her a tissue off the sideboard. "Now, let me go find Granny" he grins, and there it is again, that smile that's so much like her mothers. </p><p>It ends up being a bit like reconciling warring toddlers when he finally talks Nic down from the bedroom, but they hug it out and by four o'clock Katie's talking their ears off on the sofa about all the things she's going to get for the wee one. He's gonnae be a granddad, fucking hell. What a great, wonderful thing. </p><p>***</p><p>
  <em>List of things to take to the hospital: </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Instant coffee (nice stuff)</em><br/>
<em>- Nic's meds</em><br/>
<em>- Presents for the baby</em><br/>
<em>- Something for Katie - ??? </em><br/>
<em>- Phone charger</em><br/>
<em>- Nic's glasses.</em>
</p><p>***</p><p>It's an agonising drive to the hospital at two o'clock in the morning, one Sunday eight and a bit months from then. Nicola is at once half asleep and the most anxious he's ever seen her, especially since Katie has decided she only wants Michael in the room with her. He can see where Katie's coming from, bless her, she's been bloody nervous about it ever since she found out she was pregnant, and Nicola is not always the most reliably calming presence. They've patched it up though, the tension that bubbled away over the first few weeks, and he knows that underneath the fussing and flapping Nicola is mostly really excited. But also really terrified, and he can see where she's coming from too. He didn't quite realise the emotional implications of taking on four kids when he embarked on this endeavour, but Christ, he definitely does now. </p><p>They end up nestled together on two uncomfortable plastic chairs just outside the room Katie is in. None of the hospital coffee shops are open, and there's a comfier visitors room down the corridor but Nic wouldn't stop <em>wriggling</em> in her seat and eventually they had to get up and just walk for a bit. Their new vantage point seems to be more soothing to her, they can't hear the goings on inside but the nurses give them a thumbs up every now and then as they pop in and out to get something or take observations. For the last few hours Malcolm's been absently running his hand through Nicola's hair, telling her stories about when he was younger, and it's starting to cramp a little now. How fucking <em>long</em> can it take to have a baby? He presses a kiss to her head in apology for stopping his petting, and they've both just sat up and stretched when suddenly there's an agonisingly long, gut-wrenching scream from inside Katie's room and Nicola goes white as a sheet. Its like the life has actually drained out of the soles of her feet, and she's shaking all over in that instinctive adrenaline rush way. Tiger Mama is back with a vengeance. She tries to stand just as he gives her a look that says "dont you fucking dare faint", and he's glad he reaches to grab her arm because, obviously, she does, and this time she falls forward, which involves much more likelihood of broken noses. He loves her nose, daft bint, she should have gone backwards back into the chair. </p><p>A lovely, understanding, calm Irish nurse pops out a few minutes later to tell them they have a grandson. He's mostly got Nicola back to the land of the living by then, but he makes her have some water before they go in and see Katie. Won't do to have them both worrying about each other, some sort of demented mothering circle that he'll never be able to untangle. Thankfully she doesn't fuss, and once he's sure she's steady on her feet they head into Katie's room. She's exhausted, bless her, slightly pale and incredibly smiley, cradling a little bundle of blankets within which is the most beautiful baby boy Malcolm has ever seen. He doesn't have any nephews, he's allowed to say that. He gets kisses and cuddles and coos, as does Katie, and eventually later that night he gets a name. George Rory Murray, and he's <strong>amazing</strong>. If Malcolm sobs a bit (a lot) when he finally excuses himself to the loo hours later, that's fine. Nobody needs to know. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Stability</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nicola learns how to keep both feet on the ground.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicola does not like change. This is probably about third on Malcolm's mental Important Nicola Things list, only superseded by "no small spaces" and "make sure she has lunch". It takes him almost a year of being together to work up to even discussing the idea of them getting married. Re-married. They both know it's what they want, but Nicola immediately gets that flustered panicky look on her face, that one where her bottom lip wobbles and her nose twitches like Peter Rabbit. "Tea?" He asks, pretending they hadn't spoken about it at all. This seems to work for now. Its definitely not over, though, she's tense and uppity for the rest of the week, and more than once he runs his finger over the receipt for the ring in the back of his wallet just to make sure he still has it. Nicola doesn't always /want/ what she wants, he's starting to learn, even if he doesn't really understand why. It happens with plenty of things, cream cakes, bright floral blouses she sees in the Debenhams sale, a set of pretty ribbon restraints she finds in his box, and now apparently getting married. It doesn't make any fucking sense to him. Life would be so much nicer if he could tie her anxious hands together and feed his wife eclairs. </p>
<hr/>
<p>Nicola is ringing her mum. He's just very tentatively explained that he's booked them one of the nicest rooms at the Corinthia for the weekend, and now Nicola's ringing her mum. She'd done the appropriate excited smiley bit, but then she'd disappeared, and he can hear her chattering away behind the bedroom door. Its only ever closed when there's secrets to be told, so it's clear that she knows. She knows exactly why they're going away, exactly what he's going to do. The thought makes him feel a little bit sick. They'd actually argued about it a few weeks ago, one of their few arguments that actually cut deep for them both. Apparently getting re-married is "a waste of fucking time" and "entirely unnecessary since you already live here and we can't have any kids." The valuation of their relationship in terms of resources and necessity bothers Malcolm deeply. This is the only thing in his life that he's never seen in terms of cost benefit analysis. He's not eavesdropping as such, but he hears her little feet creak the floorboard nearest the door and quickly retreats into the study. At least the Nicola in his almost-finished memoirs can't push him away, he thinks as he opens his laptop and quickly dismisses the holiday snap background that pops up. </p>
<hr/>
<p>When he finally pushes past the ever-increasing feeling of suffocation and actually /asks/ her, properly, down on one knee next to the Thames, it goes much better than he expected. The pavement is fucking cold, he's old and creaky, and it's such an immensely awkward position. Here he is, kneeling at the altar of Nic'la, asking her not to tip him over with one poke of her shiny heels. This is where they'd first decided to "give it a go", where he finally agreed to take her out for dinner and not just keep texting her increasingly suggestive filthy things and subtle pleas for domesticity. For Malcolm it represents both beginning and end, but God knows what it means to Nicola. It's pretty, at least, there's fairy lights between the lampposts that are glowing as they swing slightly in the early dusk. He hasn't had a chance to say anything before she starts crying, little snuffly noises followed by creaky sobs forcing their way out of her bitten lip, and for a moment he considers just tipping over and lying down. Just sleeping here on the pavement for the rest of forever so he doesn't have to hear her say no. </p>
<p>Of course she doesn't say no. Theres a shuddery "yes, fuck yes, you idiot, always yes, five million times" and then he's back on his feet and she's squeezing him hard, ring box still in his hand. She can't say much, not in that state, but she's so immensely glad that he's finally asked her and that she said what she /wanted/ to say in return. The sheer relief of it makes her shake, and he has to hold her hand in both of his to slide the ring on. It never comes off, not once, not even for a moment. </p>
<hr/>
<p>Nicola has a wedding scrapbook. Its a huge brown paper and gel pen endeavour, complete with little stickers from Paperchase. The first section is full of her plans, for venues and outfits and wedding colours, and then halfway through she's spent ages crafting a "Welcome to our Wedding" page with pictures of them stuck in. Watching Nicola with a glue stick and a pair of round toddler scissors (the only ones she could find) was almost enough to make Malcolm ask her to elope. Right there and then.</p>
<p>In the end, they choose a bright, airy conservatory at Kew Gardens, and enlist Sam to sort out - well, everything, really. She's at once event planner and chief bridesmaid, caterer and makeup artist, and Malcolm has never been more grateful. If anyone deserves a honeymoon after this, it's Sam, not him. The scrapbook is spread on the table that is now filled with gifts, implausibly, and he sees Nicola running her finger over the messages everyone has left. She looks heartwrenching and breathtaking all at once, leaving him utterly incapable of doing anything except just drinking her in. The arguments about the symbolism of wearing white were solved as soon as she stumbled across her bright sunflower yellow dress in a tiny vintage shop, and it felt like Fate when it fitted her just so. He managed to convince her to pair the fitted body and full, bouncy skirt with a cream ribbon around the waist, and he thinks it might be the only good womenswear advice he's ever given. </p>
<p>There's a buzz about the room, filled with just enough family and friends but no Auntie Ethels or next door neighbours. It feels more intimate like this, and also more like they're the hottest ticket in town, which gives Malcolm a strange sort of pride. He doesn't sneak up behind her, she hates it, but its tempting just to press his nose into those soft loose curls and inhale. He settles for joining her in reading over the messages, resting his hand on hers to feel how their wedding rings clink together. She turns to kiss him, and he's halfway through sliding a hand into her hair when he breaks away, making her frown and let out a soft little "oh" that he wants to hear forever. Will hear forever. "Ye didnae faint. Its fucking boiling in here, and everyone was lookin at us, and ye just snogged my face off then skipped back down that aisle like a spring lamb" he realises, and they both grin. "I've been practicing for years" she teases, and he realises perhaps they both have. Maybe they can rest now. </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>Dearest Malcolm and Nicola, many congratulations on your happiest of days. All my love, Sammy </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Congrats, auld fuck. Commiserations, Nic. Send him back if he starts telling you too much about the good old days of print journalism. J xx </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Darling NicNak, congratulations to you both. Never been prouder. Here's to many happy years.  Mummy x </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Mum and Malc, </em>
  <br/>
  <em>We love you with all our hearts, head to toes, to the moon and back. Thank you for everything. </em>
  <br/>
  <em>Katie, Michael, Ella, Ben, Rosie and baby George. Xx</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for all your love for this little thing! I hate endings so I hope this isn't implausibly soppy. But I kind of also dont care if it is, they deserve it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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